


Agony

by stinkytooth



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate to Love, Mount Massive Asylum, Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stinkytooth/pseuds/stinkytooth
Summary: impulsive private investigator meets former murkoff executive in the embodiment of hell. things get messy.(side note: i wasn't planning on continuing this since it's a one-shot, but might make it into a full length fanfiction... might. standby.)
Relationships: Richard Trager/Original Character(s), Richard Trager/Original Female Character(s), Rick Trager/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 22
Collections: Games





	Agony

It was happening too fast. Countless faces remained unrecognized, unaccounted for, lives being lost and all she could do was run. In any other situation, in any other circumstance, she would have helped, she would have done something, anything but it was her life against theirs—it wasn't a bet she could lose. Maybe she was doing them a favor by leaving them to die, so they wouldn't have to go about the rest of their life with the knowledge of what happened to them. How much it hurt. The imprint it would leave on their scarred psyche.

She had the key. She was almost there. Soon enough, she would forget all about this place, be reminded of the comfort of her own bed, the feeling of a warm shower, of warm food. She would remember what it was like to not have to look over her shoulder every second and not have to cover her ears from the pounding of the shrill screams.

She could never pinpoint where the screams came from or what they were from; it wasn't until she met Trager that she realized just how much pain one sick individual could cause for others. 

Trapped. A term she thought she understood. A term that she was force fed until the spoon got stuck in her throat.

It couldn't have been anyone else? Not even Chris Walker? If she had a choice, she would have picked being pursued by him instead—at least his only weapon was his own hands, and even if he had something to defend himself, he would still be slow, the chains that were wrapped around his ankles would give away his location. Slow enough that she could manage to create a gap of space between them, a ticking time bomb that you could touch.

But she didn't get lucky. 

She turned the corner, the one that led to the elevator, but when she ran, it felt like how you run in a dream; too slow to escape your pursuer, them just lingering around the corner. As the world around her receded down to a steady rhythm, she knew in her heart that Trager was on her heel. She couldn't hear him, but he was a quiet predator, and when she looked over her shoulder—one foot placed in the elevator—there he was.

"Buddy."

Two feet in the elevator. She couldn't track her own thoughts or feelings anymore. They didn’t matter, not now. She slammed the gate door shut, plugged the key in, and turned it. 

The elevator started to move down. She was going to make it. Backing into the far corner, she braced herself, ready to do whatever she could to get out of there, to never see him again. 

The gate. The realization escaped her as soon as he pried it open, that she should have fought to hold it shut. 

"Fuck," she whispered, racing towards him in a poor attempt to push him out, or hit him; she was discovering that adrenaline and her brain did not mix well. Initially, she was a strong survivor, but had been on the run for far longer than expected, and her mind and body were aching and sore, and she was human, so she was shutting down.

But she felt weak.

Trager bashed her on the side of the head, with what she assumed was the large bone shears he carried around, and she fell back into the corner. Her vision blurry, her body floating like how it did underwater, and blood leaking from the wound on her head to her mouth. Every time she tried to catch her breath, she seemed to choke on the air around her, as if it were poison or a toxic gas. As her stomach muscles flexed, the aches throughout her body felt like they were amplified, and tears met the blood on her mouth. 

"Oh, buddy," he sighed, his words thick and nauseating like sour milk. "What are you tryin' to do?" 

She cried even harder as she did it from the strain, but she launched herself up with all the strength she had, only to be met with him grabbing her from under her arms and pulling her into his grip. "I gave you a chance, didn't I? Didn't old Rick try to give you a hand?" 

"No," she whispered, only for her ears to hear. "No, no—"

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. How could she have fought for so long, saving herself from getting raped, from getting assaulted, having to think smarter and quicker than the men in here, only for her body to give out on her when the sick fucker who looks like he starved himself to death captures her? After she just nearly escaped?

Trager threw her over his shoulder, almost carelessly like he didn't care if he dropped her, his hands creeping uncomfortably close to parts of her body he had no reason to be touching. She started banging against his back with her fists, the world around her moving back to a normal pace, her vision clearing, and she screamed. Not for help, not because of him, but for herself. 

But he didn't care.

"I can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped," he shouted over her. "And, quite frankly, I think I've been more than patient with you. Come on, level with me here, buddy."

" _Fuck you_ ," she shouted back. She drew out her words until her throat felt like it was bleeding. " _I'm going to fucking kill you._ "

He laughed, shifting his hands to grip around her torso as he carried her, leaving her to come to the realization that he failed to grab the bone shears after attacking her with them.

He was defenseless.

She hit her fists against his back, she grunted and shook vigorously, did everything she could to try to get down, but his grip was too rough. His fingernails felt like broken glass as they dug into her skin, leaving an imprint of something she wanted nothing more than to forget. 

"I thought we had an agreement," he continued. "You keep old Rick company, and I let you keep your precious life. But I'm a man of my word. I'm not gonna let you down this time.”

"You lay a finger on me and I'll make sure it's the last time you do," she breathed.

“Oh, _feisty_! I love it,” he laughed boisterously. "But it looks like it's too late for that, kid," He moved one hand down behind her inner thigh, keeping the other wrapped around the arch in her back. "If this is the last time I touch you, I should savor it, shouldn't I?" He couldn't seem to stop laughing, but she didn't think it was funny. He knew she didn't think it was funny. 

As he carried her down the hall, she kept trying to fight, but he possessed far more energy than she did, leaving her limp like a dead animal in his arms; a trophy to hang on the wall, a body to brag about. They passed by the same patient who was tied to a bed, the one she had ran by less than five minutes ago. The patient recognized her, and cried at the top of his lungs, his body convulsing as he begged for help. Suddenly, she felt like she was going to empty the contents of her stomach all over the floor. 

If things had gone differently, it wouldn't have ended up like this. If she would have complied with Trager, if she hadn't broken her way out of those restraints, if she had just shut up and continued to act interested in his experiments, his trust wouldn't have been broken. He would have warmed up more, he would have placed confidence in her.

But she was too impulsive. Taking matters into her own hands is what landed her here, and taking matters into her own hands would shortly become the reason that she died. 

Despite the fatigue that coated her body, she inched her back up in an attempt to create some space between them. His skin—which looked like muscle tissue that was cooked over a campfire—had a strange texture that she still couldn't pinpoint, though she knew that she didn't want to feel it against hers. 

"Home sweet home," he hummed. She could only see the double doors they entered through, but she knew this area well enough to know where he was taking her, where he was going to put her, and that if it wasn't hard to escape before, it definitely was now. He sighed in relief, adding, "Well, what can I say? I'm a lucky man. Not many people are able to admit that they get to work from home."

"What the fuck is the matter with you—" Before she could finish her sentence, he threw her down on a dirty mattress, one that already had blood stains and, what she hoped, was dirt marks. Her heart pounding in her ears, she attempted to fight back, her hands hitting his chest, reaching up to yank out what hair he had left, but it wasn't long before both of her hands were already in the leather wrist straps. 

Just from looking at them, she could tell it wasn't going to be easy if she wanted to get out. Four in each corner. When she looked back down, she saw that he had bound her feet, too. Her body already felt like it was stretched out too far, but she couldn't even think of asking him to adjust them because he started to speak.

"You know what happens now, right? You broke my trust... obliterated my confidence. It's perfectly understandable if you were just feeling a little antsy, wanted to stretch your legs," He grinned, tapping a finger meticulously on her upper thigh. "But instead, you bailed on me. You left me in the dust. And right when I was getting to the good part."

He lifted his hand from her leg, and that was when she completely lost it, her tears coming back as quick as they left. 

"Trager... you can't kill me," Normally she would have been ashamed to let herself cry in front of him, but in this situation it felt justified. She didn't pull her gaze from his. "I know why you've killed people in here, and I know why you torture them. And I know that I betrayed you, and I'm sorry, but I was scared. You understand that, right?"

He replied without missing a beat, "Why do I torture and kill these people then, kiddo?" he paused, then laughed. "Come on, enlighten me! Why do I cut and carve these people up like Thanksgiving turkeys?"

The way she could see the smile from under his mask made her stomach twist, finally resting her head against the mattress in defeat, but she still didn't look away. "Because you feel like they betrayed you, too. When Jeremy Blaire had you committed to the asylum, you felt... cheated because he was one of your close friends, and, well, he stood by and watched as they tortured you."

Repeating back the personal information he had given her was going to be a hit or miss, but she had to try something. In her gut, she knew that he must have a weak spot somewhere, a soft side that could convince him to keep her alive. 

Or was he as crazy as she thought he was?

She watched with nervous eyes as he squinted at her, hands folded formally behind his back. He clicked the top of his mouth with his tongue, then took a step forward. She found it strange that she didn't pull away from him.

"You're right," He paused, leaning in as if to inspect her, then moved his hands to grip the edge of the bed. His tone was soft, but she remained cautious. "I only hurt people that have done me wrong, and you... haven’t betrayed me, have you?"

She couldn't help it; she let out a breath of relief, even a grateful smile, but suddenly felt her stomach retch even tighter than before, like it was being ripped from her body, so she retraced her thoughts—she couldn't let herself have empathy for him. Not yet. 

"I didn't betray you?" she asked, hopeful. 

He smiled. "That's what I would say, if you hadn't done what you did."

" _Rick_ , please," At this point, the pain that leaked through her body was inching near unbearable. If her arms and legs stayed like this for much longer, her muscles would tear, like ripping raw meat apart with your bare hands. "I'm _sorry_ . I am," She looked at him with glassy eyes, her cheeks soaked with tears. "I should have never left you like that. I won't do it again, I promise. I know you thought we were friends, and I know that I broke your trust, but, _fuck_ , look at me.”

She struggled, yanking her wrists towards him like she was trying to fight back, practically staying in the position that she was in before. “See? I can barely move. I’m not a threat to you, I’m not going to harm you. So, _please_ , loosen these. I know you like inflicting pain on others, but this is different, this is _me_ we’re talking about, Trager. Yesterday, I didn’t even know you existed; I didn’t stand by and watch you get tortured over and over again, like how Jeremy did, or that executive did, or even like the patients did. I tried to get away because I was scared, and you’ve done the same thing, right?”

Her voice trembled, and when she blinked, her vision grew blurry, but she didn't stop looking at him. She didn't dare. “When Jeremy would send you to the engine, you fought back, yeah? You didn’t want to get hurt, so you tried to escape. You and I are different, but with this… we’re one in the same. We’ve both been victims.”

She waited; her jaw slack, and the lamp, which was aimed straight at her body, created a space of heat on the center of her stomach. She squirmed, trying to move her hips side to side to scoot away from the lamp, but as expected, she still couldn’t move.

A thick, dark pit of anger started to grow inside of her. The restraints were too tight, and the light was too hot, and he was taking too long to answer—and she had no idea if she was going to live or die. You could never tell with him.

“Wow,” he chuckled, clapping his hands, slowly, like how you do after mediocre production. “Color me impressed, young lady. You have some decent acting skills under your belt.” After leaning over the bed, he moved his hand down to grab at one of the belt loops of her jeans, slipping his finger through the small strand of fabric. He then felt the texture of the brown leather belt. “And you’re actually wearing a belt,” he muttered under his breath, laughing. “Ha! That’s funny. Totally didn’t plan that…”

Slowly, she shook her head, lower lip quivering as she fought back more tears. “Trager, come _on_ , give me a break…”

“Hey, a break is exactly what I’m giving you right now, hot shot,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “If I had it my way, I would have removed that tongue from that dirty mouth of yours, but you just won’t stop running your m—”

Words kept leaving him, but she couldn’t comprehend them. Instead, she forced her brain to think of an even stronger argument, something that would get his attention, shut him up, but it had to be something she was willing to do. He would notice right away if she hesitated, and knowing that this decision could very well lead to the end of her life did not help the stability of her mind. 

“ _Trager_ ,” she said firmly, clenching her jaw as she did so. “I… need you to work with me, here, please. Just listen to me, okay? If I’m really going to die right here, right now, can we just get everything out on the table?”

The jovial smile that she swore was glued to his mouth folded down into a neat line. Beneath his glasses, she saw him narrow his dark eyes. “Well?” He tried to disguise his tone as monotone, annoyed, but she could sense his peaked curiosity. “Spit it out.”

She was stupid to think that she could come up with something on the spot. There were so many different directions she could go, but the end point in each one never guaranteed her safety—then again, what did she have to lose?

“If I could go back in time, and change what I did, I would. I mean that—”

He rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. “You can’t go back in time and change—”

“I know I _can’t_ . I’m saying if I _could_ ,” she took a deep breath, held her temper. “Trager, I don’t want my life to end, and I don’t want yours to end. I know you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true, so, please, listen to me—” she winced, her nose burning from the familiar sting of more tears. She had cried more in the past few hours than she had in months. “I will do… anything you want, anything to gain your trust back. So, just tell me, and… I’ll do it.”

“Easy there, sport,” He chuckled, holding up both of his hands as if he was going to surrender. “Now what are you doing going around and saying shit like that for? Not a wise decision on your end—this apron doesn’t hide as much as you think it does.”

She ignored him. “I mean it,” she said quietly, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I just want us to get along again, because we did for a while there, remember? In the middle of it, or, the very end, I guess—”

“Alright, alright, I don’t need to hear your reasoning,” He reached up to scratch the back of his head. “You really want my trust back that bad, huh?” He waited for her to nod, and when she did, he laughed. “Well, you’re going to have to earn it. I’m going to need to see your… dedication. Think of this like it’s an internship for a job that you want, buddy, that sound good?”

“What,” She took a deep breath, tilting her head to the side. The tension that he had created left a wave of nausea to linger by. “What exactly do I need to do then?”

“What you just said, kid—you’re going to have to do whatever I want,” Placing his hands behind his back again, he turned around and began walking in a different direction, one she couldn't see. "You'll have to excuse me for a second,” he called. “But I'll be back to take care of you. You just sit tight."

She heard a door open, and though she couldn’t see it, she recalled where it led: into a separate, large room nearby, which eventually led to the elevator. He dropped the bone shears when he captured her in the elevator, and she could guarantee that he was going back to get them. 

“Trager?” she called. Nothing. 

It wasn’t until then that she noticed how bad her head hurt, remembering that he ambushed her—that’s how she got here in the first place. But it felt so long ago, and so unreal, like a fever dream. 

She tried to move her legs, not even close to being successful, and squirmed even harder; the light now felt like it was seething into her skin, to leave ugly blisters for him to poke and prod at. If it didn’t end up burning her through her shirt, she knew Trager would compromise with something else, something even more painful. 

His familiar hum echoed down the hall, and he entered through the double doors this time, carrying the bone shears over his shoulder, as she predicted. He approached the bed, pulling up a chair nearby and sitting in front of her as if he were a loved one visiting her in the hospital. She was harshly reminded that he wasn’t wearing anything under his apron when he leaned forward, the sides of his bare waist exposed. 

“See, all you gotta do here, is stay right where you are, and remain open-minded,” The skin around his eyes crinkled. Even if she couldn’t see the corner of his smile, she knew that the task wouldn’t be as simple as he presented it to be. “You can’t fall asleep. You can’t fight. You can’t ask me for anything—I’ll be giving you everything you need, anyway… don’t feel the need to thank me or anything. In the meantime, we’ll perform some exercises.”

“How long do I have to stay like this?” she asked bravely. 

The bone shears were resting against the foot of the chair, until he picked it up, refusing to break eye contact with her. “Until I say so.”

She stared at him blankly. Her stomach recoiled, the blood pounding in her ears, in the wound on her head, and she wanted to scream, but she felt like her voice was fading. She needed to rest, and some water for her dry throat, but didn’t bother asking.

“What…” she licked her lips, her eyes already starting to flutter shut. “What exercises… are you making me do?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” He set the bone shears in his lap, tapping his fingernails across them, as if daring to use them or not. “Tonight, kiddo… we’re going to help you _build character_.”

As she lied there, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe she was better off dead. 

  
  


She didn’t know how many hours went by. Trager wouldn’t tell her. She quickly figured out that it must be a part of the torture, or, as he called it: _building character_. Making the situation as horrible as possible, not wanting her dead, but not wanting her to be at peace and feel safe at the same time.

The restraints—too tight.

The lamp—too hot. 

Her body felt like it was going to fall apart, like what happens to a doll when you play with it too much; their limbs come off, the stuffing seeps out. And Trager was true to his word, she could give him that: he didn’t let her out of his sight. Every once in awhile, he had to ‘tend’ to a patient that was causing commotion, and every time he got up from that chair, she didn’t dare shut her eyelids, not even for a second, because if she let herself drift off into the fantasy of sleep, she would find out what happened if she disobeyed him, and she couldn’t have that. She wouldn’t be able to take it. 

The strangest part is that he just sat there. Granted, he always seemed to be talking to himself (when he wasn’t trying to engage in conversation with her), so it wasn’t as unsettling, but she always listened. Tried to, anyway. When he would finally quiet down, gliding his long fingers across the blade of the bone shears, she soaked up every second of the silence. 

That was another thing—it was oddly silent. She knew he had at least a dozen other patients tied to beds like she was, and she knew he did unspeakable things to them, yet, at some point in the early morning, the lack of mercy cries ceased. It didn’t take long for her to accept it when she realized he probably killed them. 

She could only hope that this would be over soon, but she knew it wasn’t likely.

“Eyes are looking a little glassy there, kiddo,” His voice caused her to blink rapidly, and when she glanced over, he had gotten up from the chair, leaning over her with his arm against the bed frame. “Not planning on passing out on me, are ya?”

“I’m… _no_ ,” she choked. “I’m just exhausted.”

“Aw, is that all?” he teased back. He reached up to the lamp, carefully moving the head of the light so that it was aimed into her eyes. “Just a little tired, are we? Well, go ahead: close your eyes. Take a load off. I’ll be right here.”

She strained her neck to turn her head as further away from the light as possible, keeping her gaze locked on him. “Trager, come on. Please, don’t—”

“ _Hey_ ,” His voice dropped an octave, and she drew back, but he used his other hand to point a finger in her face. “I don’t want to hear any whining, remember? Be a team player.”

She closed her mouth, still straining her neck away from the light. That only earned her a snicker, and he slowly inched the head of the lamp towards her, closer and closer, until finally he pulled it back and returned it to its original position.

Like a record player stuck on the same song, he was laughing at her in amusement again, every once in a while glancing at the restraints. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look a little stressed. What’s wrong, buddy? Got your hands tied?”

Nothing. She felt nothing. She was practically a puppet, and he made sure to remind her of that by plucking at the strings, forcing her to move how he wanted, to sound how he wanted, to even say what he wanted because if she refused, she could die. 

No—she would die.

 _What kind of a person does this?_ She thought, _how could you possibly get any pleasure from torturing someone like this?_

“Oh, I understand now,” he said. The habitual playful tone of his voice suddenly shifted; it was formal, controlled, like he was rehearsing lines for a play. When he spoke, she could sense the energy he plunged into his words. “You’re getting bored,” he paused. “So, let’s switch things up. Tell me—what’s your intention?”

 _My intention?_ She thought to herself, _My intention is to survive this with the minimum amount of needed therapy,_

Perplexed by how many different outcomes she could receive based off of her answer, she repeated the question back to him, and he responded with, “Where do we go from here? If I’m not gonna kill you, then what the hell’s going on?” His chest puffed out, he added, “Come on, don’t play dumb with me. Regardless of your previous actions, I know you’re not stupid. You can’t be, not with the shit you’ve come up with,” When he laughed, it almost sounded light-hearted. “So? If you’re plotting a grand escape, what does the end point look like?”

Another trick question, but one she wouldn’t fall for. He was right about one thing—she was smart. Not to mention: exhausted, beat-down, emotionally numb, every inch of her body aching with pain she didn’t know existed until now, but smart. A life or death situation will do that to you.

“You can escape _with_ me,” she said. When he didn’t respond, an ambivalent expression on his face, she continued, “I can get you out of here. How long has it been since you’ve actually left this place? Wouldn’t you rather—”

Suddenly, he let out a heavy sigh, and the way that he shook his head at the floor told her that she had done more harm than good before he even opened his mouth. “You know, I _hate_ liars. Jer was a liar.”

“No,” Soon enough, she started shaking her head with tears in her eyes. “No, no, I’m not lying…”

“You’re not playing by the rules, buddy, you’re making them up as you go along. And you know that I think cheaters… quitters… shouldn’t go unpunished,” His voice fell even deeper; barely a low murmur, and he bent down to the level of her face, his hot breath wafting into her mouth through the torn corner of his mask. “ _You’re not getting away with this, kid._ ”

All it took for her to break was to watch as Trager disappeared behind her, and when she heard the metal clanking as he sorted through various tools, all of her previous judgement was wiped from her memory. She couldn’t help but beg for forgiveness as her body thrashed violently against the restraints. 

“ _I told you I’ll do anything,_ ” As she started to yell, he continued to sort through the tools on the rolling tray. “ _I mean it. Please, please, just don’t do this to me—_ ”

When he reappeared back into her field of vision, she was relieved to see that he hadn’t picked up any of the tools, and only walked up to the side of the bed, setting his hand down on the mattress, less than an inch or so from hers. “I don’t want to remove your lungs, buddy, but you’re giving me an ultimatum here.” 

In the midst of the chaos, she was able to scour her brain for mannerisms and behavior that might talk him down, cool him off; anything to convince him to not do whatever he wanted to. As much as the idea didn’t sit right with her, she wondered if she should try to flirt—nothing serious, just enough to catch him off guard and supply a purpose for herself. 

_Relax,_ she thought. _He’ll know if you’re faking it._

Then, she took a deep breath; breaking eye contact could very well change the outcome, so she extended her gaze, and managed to stretch her hand out far enough to just barely run her fingers over his.

Her throat, already sore from the dehydration and screaming, felt scratchy as she spoke, but she whispered, “ _Hey…_ ” in a soft tone. She intended on saying more, but became lost as she really felt the texture of his skin for the first time; it was cold in certain places, and hot in others, and rough, yet soft, and now that there was more light shown on it, she realized how red it was, almost looking bloody.

As a ripple of emotions hit her, she became overwhelmed with everything she wanted to say, what she wanted to apologize for, and if she were to explain it to a third party, she knew that they would think she was crazy. Delusional. A tease of Stockholm syndrome.

But, it made sense to her because she couldn’t imagine going through what he went through—being confined to a place you used to help control, for the rest of your life, knowing that the person responsible was someone that you used to trust. No wonder he went crazy.

Then she came along, and just when he started to believe that he found a person who was going to erase that reality, what did she do? She left. 

She wanted to say she was sorry, but it didn’t sound like her, it wasn’t something she would do, not in these circumstances so she kept her mouth shut, tried to think of something else to say. It was difficult to think of what else she could sprinkle into her speech—she was too focused on how his appearance suddenly seemed much easier on her eyes. The longer she looked at him, the less she paid attention to the blood drip on his arm, the dirty stains on his apron, the bald spot on his head, the rough stitching in his skin, how you could see the shredded part of his mouth from underneath his mask.

_Was he growing on her?_

It wasn’t until he pulled his hand out from underneath hers that she realized how long she held his gaze, and how long she had been caressing him.

“Thanks for stroking my ego there, honey,” he laughed. “I can call you that now, right? I feel like we’ve advanced a bit in our relationship,” Pacing back over to the tray of tools, he clanked around a bit more, the familiar pit blackening her stomach. “But, I’m in the middle of consultation, and I wouldn’t want to be unprofessional, right? A sexual harassment charge wouldn’t look too good on my record,” he paused. “And, you know, I originally had a different plan in mind, but now...”

Her heart was beating so rapidly now that she swore it shook her body, rattled the restraints. 

“Since you’re getting all handsy,” he said. “I think we need to ground you. Build character, remember?” Then, she heard what she could only imagine was him picking up one of the tools from the table, followed by his heavy footsteps coming back to greet her. When she saw that he had an electric drill—a very, very old one with a dull tip—she could only look up at him and try to plead with her eyes.

“Like I said,” he continued. “It’s not necessarily doctor’s equipment, but hey, we’ll have to make do.”

She didn’t know Trager that well, but she knew him well enough to know what he intended on doing, and that if she didn’t act fast, there was no telling what would happen to her. “Rick… I know that you think this is going to make you feel better, but I’m telling you, it won’t. It’s just going to create more problems for you. There’s other ways to—”

“Well, we’re doing it _my_ way, sweetheart,” He began to bring his finger down on the trigger of the drill, just barely bringing it to life with a single whir, then lifted his finger off of it again. When he glanced back down at her and saw the desperation in her eyes, he couldn’t help but laugh—whether it was an act or not, he was impressed.

Without another word, he stepped forward, using his free hand to hold down her left one. The tight grip around her wrist caused her to draw in a breath, her eyes flicking up at his, and in response, he simply said, “Don’t worry, old Rick is going to take care of you. A good doctor always takes care of his patients.” 

She didn’t have time to think about whether or not she should look away; Trager pressed his finger down on the trigger, driving the tip into the palm of her hand, and when she screamed, it was incoherent and primal, and raw with agony. The spinning drill bit wrapped her skin around itself, yanking, tearing through her flesh, like how a dog pulls on the other end of a toy during tug of war. 

As his finger slowly lifted off of the trigger, and he pulled the drill away, the shallow wound pulsed in the center of her hand, palm soaked in blood. Her screaming ceased, and she could only make a poor attempt to catch her breath. When she thought that she finally caught up to the rhythm of her breathing, Trager lifted a hand and slapped her—hard—across the face, leaving a stinging hand print on the right side of her cheek. 

“Hey, come on now,” he grunted, grabbing the same wrist and holding it down against the mattress. The drill in his other hand, his finger already pressed down on the trigger again. “If you keep squirming around like that, it's not going to be a clean cut. Be a good sport for me.”

She cringed even before the pain hit her, and once he plunged the drill back into her hand, she didn’t even notice the handprint on her face that felt like it was on fire; she only felt the dull metal ramming through her skin, and then through her muscle, and then through her bone, in misery that left her silently begging to whatever God out there, to kill her. She couldn’t help but scream—she didn’t care if he hit her again. A slap on the face was nothing compared to this.

“So, you’re a screamer, huh?” he chuckled to himself, as she heard him slowly pace over to the other side of her. “Guess I didn’t know you as well as I thought I did.”

Maybe it was the light, but there was a buzzing in her head, a sudden hollowness that made her feel like she wasn’t alive at all. An empty mind. An empty heart. There was no point in denying it; she was going to die there. Whether it was a slow, painful infection from the dirty drill, or if he outright killed her after this—there were so many close calls she had experienced as soon as she stepped into this place. She couldn’t keep running, as the path had reached a dead end.

Trager repeated what he had done before; paced around to the other side, got a tight grip on her wrist, brought the drill to life and pushed it through the palm of her hand, only this time, he shoved it in much quicker, making her body jolt in shock—leading the metal inside of her hand to rip near the end. On the back of her hand, beneath the blood that was leaking out, were messy, unfinished cuts of flesh.

But it was over. It was quick—unspeakably, _horribly_ painful, but quick—and Trager was humming to himself ever so nonchalantly, dropping the drill back onto the table which caused a loud clatter. She lied there, bleeding out from both hands, trembling with tear streaked cheeks, small whimpers coming from her mouth as she kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

She wanted to plead to God to kill her out of pure mercy, but all she could focus on was the aching holes in her hands, and the risk of infection, and what else that drill had touched, whether it be someone’s piss, shit, blood, germs—whatever it was, it was inside of her now.

Trager circled back around to the right side of the bed. “You’ve seen my little slogan written on the walls, right? ‘FINGERS FIRST, THEN BALLS, THEN TONGUE’? Kind of hard to miss.”

He paused for a moment, examining the details of her face, as if it was the last time that he was going to be able to take it all in; how her jaw quivered the longer he stared at her, the way her tears and sweat made the mount of golden-brown hair stick to her long neck, the blood stains that made her white shirt look like someone had carelessly bombed it with red dye. The way he broke down her spirit, stripped her of what humanity and confidence she had left—how he left her so desperate that she was willing to do anything in a poor attempt to save her life.

He knew he couldn’t act, not yet. So, he ignored the tight knot in his stomach that left little space for logic, cupping both sides of her face in his hand as his fingernails dug into her wet cheeks. He leaned further into her view, and she watched as more of the scarred part of his mouth moved from under his mask. “My point is, buddy, is that you’re lucky I’m letting you keep your fingers. I know how much you’d miss them.”

His joke went right over her head, and she could only give a heavy sigh, more tears streaming down her face, tickling the skin in her ears, which created a deep echo, like when you submerge your head underwater. She closed her eyes, tried to imagine the smell of chlorine, getting water stuck up her nose, the disappointment when she begged and _begged_ her mom to watch her do a handstand, only to be ignored—and that being the worst of her problems. Nothing like this. To be a kid again; not wondering if you were going to die of infection, but worrying about when mom was going to say it was time to wrap it up and go home. 

Trager watched as her eyes twitched underneath her eyelids, and he tried to determine what exactly she was thinking about, only to release her face from his hand. He thought that would startle her, make her open her eyes, but she didn’t look back up at him, and only let her head fall to the side, cheek compressed against the mattress.

“Uh oh,” He sighed, cocking his head to mockingly mimic her. “Looks like we overdid it today, champ.”

She felt her weight sink into the mattress, the wound on her hands sending a steady, pulsing ache up through her arms, leaking into her chest. As she lied there, she didn’t care what he was going to do. She just wanted it to end—or somehow, get better.

“But, hey,” he continued. “At least the hard part is over, right?”

After digesting his words, her eyes slowly opened as she realized what he was insinuating. If the hard part was over, then that meant that there was more, and despite what he said, she already knew that it was going to be just as bad, if not, worse.

She tried to talk, but it felt like her voice was being held hostage in the center of her chest. And the pain—it was more intense than before, it was white-hot, razor-sharp. It made her body squirm, but every time she opened her mouth, she still couldn’t get the words out.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked as he approached the bed. “Cat got your tongue?” He paused, patiently waiting for a response, even tapping his wrist in a comedic matter until he said, “Oh, I see—you’re thirsty. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” He gave her a parting laugh, then went into a nearby room that was connected to this one, out of her field of vision. 

He wasn’t gone for long; when she heard his footsteps moving towards her, she craned her neck to try to look over her shoulder, ignoring the shooting pain up her arms. The only thing he had with him was a cloth that was dripping all over the floor, and she assumed that it was—hopefully—water. 

“You know, I don’t usually do things like this, but…” Trager shrugged, as if he didn’t want to bother to explain himself, and bounced the cloth up and down in his hand, letting more of the water continue to drip onto the floor beneath him. “Hey, what can I say? You turned that attitude right back around, buddy, and the best way to ensure that a mutt repeats its good behavior is to _reward_ it.”

The two of them held a moment of silence, her questioning whether or not he was actually going to let her drink, or if he was simply doing this to taunt her, but then he stepped forward and held the cloth in his palm, hovering just over her mouth. The small beads of liquid landed on her face, close enough to her mouth that she could stick out her tongue to taste it. It was water. It wasn’t fresh spring water by any means, but it was water.

“Now,” he mumbled, placing his thumb on her lower lip, and his pointer finger on her jaw, slowly widening her mouth with them. “Come on— _open._ ”

It was sick that she was letting him do this to her, defiling and humiliating her, treating her with the same consideration as shit on the bottom of his shoe. That’s what she thought, initially, then she wondered: _But, was he? Was he really?_ He noticed how scratchy her throat was, he knew that she couldn’t get the words out, so he went out of his way to find a solution. That had to count for something.

It was all too much—the fatigue, the pain, the utter exhaustion of fighting, only to be tortured over and over again, her throat and mouth so dry that her words couldn’t depart, so she shut her eyes and tipped her head back, not caring as his thumb brushed the tip of her tongue. She needed relief, and moaned as he squeezed the cloth, letting the water cleanse her mouth. 

“Now, isn’t this better?” he asked softly. But she only savored the feeling of ease, barely noticing how his thumb was slowly etching itself into her mouth, whether it was a conscious decision on his end or not. She didn’t notice how his breath shook as he spoke, either. “Isn’t it more enjoyable… for _both_ of us, if we just get along?”

Once the water had disappeared down her throat, and she realized there was hardly any left, she was pulled back into reality, and her stomach dropped as she felt Trager’s thumb caress her tongue; it tasted like metal, it tasted like the tools he had touched, the blood under his fingernails, and the grim of the atmosphere around them. She yanked her head away, regardless of the sting that penetrated her shoulder, and Trager only laughed at her.

“You’re really sending me mixed signals here, sweetheart,” he chuckled, and straightened his back, leaving him to tower over her again. “But, like I said, the good news is: the bad part is over. Well, actually I guess it depends on who you ask.”

When he walked over to the tray of tools, he reached down on the lower shelf to grab a half empty bottle of alcohol, turning it over so he could read the label despite that he already knew what it was. “I _was_ saving this for a vodka martini, but we gotta fight off any nasty infection, right?”

Time was held at a halt as the pounding in her chest overpowered her other senses. She hated to admit it, but he was right. If what he was holding in his hand really was a bottle of booze, it could rid her of any kind of infection—and her mind ran wild with the possibilities—especially considering how little time had gone by since his little operation.

It wasn’t going to be fun, but it was the right thing to do. The smart thing to do. 

She swallowed the pool of saliva that had built up around her teeth, and nodded. “Right,” she answered. 

Trager sighed in euphoria. After unscrewing the cap from the bottle, tossing it aside, he strode back up to her bedside, and there it was in his hand, positioned so that she could purposely read it: SMIRNOFF. “Good,” he replied. “After all, if we want this to be a successful procedure, we have to do a little dirty work. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

As much as she tried not to think about it, she succumbed to her thoughts; her eyes shifted from the wound on her hand to the bottle of vodka, wondering if he was right—was it going to be slightly less painful? Or more? 

The holes in her palms were messy, loose patches of skin dangling like bait on a fishing hook. That factor alone spoke for itself, and as she blew air out of her mouth, the dread plunked deep into her stomach. When Trager noticed this, he smiled big enough for her to see the scarred portion of his mouth again, much more visible to her now that he wasn’t bent over, her face just barely leveled with his waist.

“Since we obviously don’t have anything to numb you with, you’re probably going to need this to help you out,” he explained, holding up the cloth in a subtle gesture. As he leaned forward, she instinctively opened her mouth. When he saw this, he emitted a low chuckle and raised an eyebrow. “Wow, quick learner,” Before she could react, he bundled the cloth up with his one hand, then placed it in between her lips. When she slowly bit down on the fabric, more water trickled into her mouth and down her throat. 

She tried to focus on that—on the water, like how she had focused on the water from the pool as he drilled the gaping reminder into her hands, tearing apart her life line. If he really didn’t care, he wouldn’t have given it to her in the first place. He was trying, and so she would try, too; by doing whatever he wanted, by listening to what he said. Fighting it at this point would be a waste of energy.

He didn’t do this for any other patients. He didn’t tend to their needs, he didn’t consider what would make their situation any less painful, the only effort he put in was effort in making them suffer—he went out of his way to torture them in the most inhumane, unimaginable ways, and sure, he did that to her, too, but he was also trying to take care of her, in a sick way that only his mind could understand. 

Inside of her head, it was a combat zone; wrestling between being grateful, and being afraid. Trager picked up on this through the way the tendons in her neck stuck out, visibly pulsing, the pallid shade of her skin, and the way the puffy rings around those brown eyes appeared damp, overly bright. 

He pressed one hand against the mattress, the other hand still holding the bottle of vodka, speaking in his usual loud, bubbly tone, as if he were giving a well-rehearsed acceptance speech. “Try not to scream too much, alright? That’s what the cloth is for. Just bite into it.”

She doubted that his intention was to comfort her, and she expected nothing less from him. Why was he taking so long? It could have been done already, it could have been over, the pain could have even subsided at that moment, if he had just stopped talking—

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re by far my favorite patient,” With that parting statement, he poured the vodka straight through the hole of her right hand, and she bit down on the cloth so hard that she could feel her teeth grind against each other through the thick fabric. Her back arched at the burning bullet that shot through her palm, screaming a bellowing _‘fuck’_ into the rag as the last splashes of water dripped down the sides of her face. 

Trager simply stood and watched as she writhed in pain, walking around to her left side. They were halfway done; if he said one word… one word, she was going to—

“Look at you, taking it like a champ,” he cheered, giving her a playful slug on the shoulder like they were friendly colleagues. She flinched when he hit her shoulder, and as a result, a relentless heat flushed through her body; her jaw fell slack, the cloth falling on the mattress underneath her. Her heart thumping violently against her chest, like it was about to explode.

“ _What_ ,” she gritted her teeth. “ _—the_ fuck _is the matter with you?_ ”

He returned the glassy stare that she had abandoned, and a new kind of smile manifested on his mouth; one that she could tell was forced, one that made her regret her words as soon as they fled. The grip on the bottle tightened. He wanted to respond with another astute quip, but he suddenly became aware of the groans in the walls, the faint white noise buzzing in his ears, different voices telling him to do different things, but those things would drive her even further away and he had already fucked up bad already, so he clenched his jaw, and poured the rest of the bottle into the wound. 

She screamed— _loud._ Crystallized anguish. Little white spots dancing across her vision. Black, unfiltered oblivion brimming through the roots on her head to the ends of her toenails; her muscles relaxed, as the stinging slowly exuded from every pore, every crevice and glided through her organs.

It was clear to her that _nothing_ was clear to her. Trager mumbled under his breath, disappearing from her vision, the only evidence of his movement being the sound of his footsteps bleeding into the background noise. She didn’t know why; she didn’t know what was real, what was going to happen, so in a weak voice, she whispered, “ _Wait—don’t… leave me…_ ”

But it was too late. He was gone, and she was left there, only to drift off into what some would call a peaceful sleep, and some would call a desperate attempt at an escape. 

For the sake of her sanity, she was wavering towards the first option.

  
  


She couldn’t recall exactly when she passed out, and didn’t know how many hours went by—it didn’t matter, because someone was vigorously shaking the bed. 

“ _Hey, come on… wake up! Oh, God, please, wake up…_ ”

She stirred, exhaled a breath from her nose, shifted her legs around, only to be reminded of the confinement. It felt like she had only been asleep for a couple of hours. Still shaken from the physical and mental trauma, but regaining lucidity, her eyes opened. And when they did, her brain felt slow, weighed down, like a wet cloth, and her surroundings extravasated a knot of suffocation.

Flies circled around the lamp. The light felt like it was boiling into her eyes. Everytime she breathed, pain shot through her arms like an aggressive injection. The stench of musty, thick sweat, and the blood, and the vodka burned the top of her mouth.

There was an unfamiliar face hovering over her; he was pale, and had bloody blotches scattered across his skin. Bald, adorning a messy patient uniform, and a low voice. A weak voice, as if ridden with guilt.

“You’re awake,” he whispered loudly, then reached down and started to take off the restraints on her feet at a surprisingly quick pace. While he did that, her eyes wandered over to her hands, and she frowned when she realized that both of them were properly bandaged. 

_Trager did that?_ She thought, wanting to sway towards disbelief, because that’s what she was used to. But he was the only person that could have done it, even if it didn’t align with his character. 

“What,” she gasped, her breathing inconsistent and heavy. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m helping,” he responded. She noticed that he refused to look at her, and the shame he carried with him was practically a flashing target right in between his eyes. Based on how messy his handiwork with the restraints became, she assumed that he had somehow escaped from Trager, most likely still on the run from him, and for a remote reason, he was choosing to help her escape.

As much as she wanted to believe that he was just a good person and was willing to take the risk, she couldn’t help but remember what Trager did when she tried to escape the first time—it’s what led her back here. It’s why every inch of her body ached. It’s why there were two holes in each hand, patched up with thick rolls of gauze, yet still bleeding through. 

But when she listened, _really_ listened to him, things… improved. She hated to admit it, but he did clean the wounds, and bandage them. That didn’t excuse what he did to her as a ‘warning’—it was going to scar her, both physically and mentally for the rest of her life. Even after she healed from it, it would continue to linger; a never ending cycle of highs and lows, thinking that the trauma was past her, only to relive it all over again. 

She was too deep into her own thoughts to notice that she was free to move, that is, until he shook her shoulder again, and she winced, instinctively reaching up to grab her shoulder. She wanted to hug herself in a desperate attempt for comfort, but knew that it would elicit the same pain. 

“We have to leave,” the man whispered loudly. He was crouched over, head whipping back and forth between her and the large double doors ahead. “Mr. Trager’s going to be back soon.”

In a swift gesture, she held her hand up, motioning for him to hold on while she carefully dragged her legs across the bed until she felt her feet touch the floor, surprised at the bare soles touching the bloody tiles.

 _When did he take off my shoes? And socks?_ She thought.

She was exhausted, so she planted both feet on the floor. If she got up and walked away, it would leave stained footprints of her own blood, and she couldn’t care less. What did human decency and good hygiene mean right now anyway?

“I can’t leave,” she finally said, resting her hands in her lap with her shoulders hunched. The strength steadily washed up on her body the way that waves wash up on the shore. “I don’t know who you are… or what you want, but…”

The patient pointed towards the large double doors again, and shook his head rigorously as he did before. It seemed like he wasn’t able to use his words properly, resorting to physical gestures to relay his message; a message that she didn’t understand the importance of. What was stopping him from choosing to save other variants, people that were like him, people that had a lesser chance of escaping? Why was he so fixated on her, and why did she feel like there were ulterior motives?

“T-Trager will kill you,” he insisted. 

“No, he won’t,” she replied, her words slow but thorough. “Trust me.”

“We… we have to get out,” He reached down and started to pick at the skin around his fingers, glancing over his shoulder to look at the doors like clockwork. She only shook her head, but in a much more composed manner, and kept her gaze aimed at the floor. 

“I made a promise,” she swallowed and grimaced; she felt the rough bile that had dried onto her teeth as her tongue felt around her mouth. She could still faintly taste Trager’s metallic skin from when she let him put his finger in her mouth, which sent an unsettling shudder through her body. “Trager, he’s... taking care of me. I’m fine.”

If the patient hadn’t been in a panicked state before, he was now. Words left his lips, but they were all lumped together, a unfathomable entanglement, one that's impossible to undo. One that would be easier to just throw away than try to fix. 

It didn’t matter what kind of argument he made, whether or not he tried to pull her out from this Stockholm syndrome ravine that she had sunken into—he was wasting what little breath he seemed to have.

But she wouldn’t say she was sorry, she knew that much. She had nothing to be sorry for. She was doing the right thing by staying here, even if it seemed crazy, even if it defied the old laws of her ethics; her old ways did nothing but fail her. The seed _she_ planted, rotting the nourishment that she needed to survive. The only option now was to rip that seed out of the ground and try to find comfort in the feeling of the dirt clutched in her hand. 

“You should go,” She dug her nails into the mattress, savouring the feeling of the filth creeping under her skin, of the blood painting the bottoms of her feet red, because what mattered is that she was alive. And she was alive because she complied. Finally, she looked up at the patient. “I just can’t. I promised him.”

The patient’s eyes softened, not like he felt bad for her, but like he was relieved she didn’t want to come with. He nodded, and for the first time during their brief encounter, he did it in a solemn manner. His eyes then shifted to the double doors, turning his entire body to face it as one of them opened, and Trager peeked his head into the room. 

She expected her stomach to sink, but this time, it lifted up into her throat, in an emotion that could only be described as hesitant relief. 

“Nice effort there, buddy,” he cheered, widening the door so that it was almost completely open, and stepping into the room. “I gotta say, I’m impressed with both of your performances today.”

The patient and her were both silent for different reasons; his hands trembled as he spun his fingers around each other, continually avoiding eye contact with Trager—but she couldn’t _stop_ looking at Trager, and he couldn’t stop looking at her. 

She was silent because she was in shock. And angry. And terrified, yet so, so grateful, her mind adjusting, expanding, soaking in the knowledge like a sponge of what would have happened if she gave in. What would have happened if she gave into her impulses, just one last time.

But she did it—she made the right decision. 

“Come on. Get out of here,” Trager cleared his throat loudly to gain the attention of the patient, forcing himself to pull his eyes away. As proud as he was of his initial plan, Trager was just as unsettled as her; not only shocked that she stayed, but shocked that she fought to keep the promise that he thought was built on lies and pure survival. “I would leave before I change my mind,” he finished. 

After exchanging a doubtful glance between Trager and her, the patient scurried off like a dog with his tail in between his legs, through the open door, the sound of his pattering footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Once he had left, and it was just the two of them again, she surprised herself by speaking first. Before, she couldn’t bear to hear his voice—but now? Now she was eager to dampen the silence.

“I thought that you said I couldn’t fall asleep,” Her voice low, but layered with earnestness.

“Yeah, well,” Trager gave a half hearted laugh. “I came to a compromise. After all, you were a good sport, considering how the operation went and all.”

The deflect in dialect was a reminder that despite his mercy, he was still mentally ill; whether that was from the effects of the engine, or if it amplified whatever was in him before, she didn’t know, and unless she found evidence she never would know, not for certain. 

“Right,” She gave a solemn head bow, pursing her lips that had started to chap again already.

As her eyes hit the floor, Trager suddenly felt like he had gotten kicked in the stomach, a stiff ribbon of anxiety in his chest; immediately wanting to follow up with a one-liner, a poor attempt at a joke to try to lighten the mood. But nothing came to mind. Instead, he glanced at her hands, pointing at the bandages, every part of the fabric soaked in blood with the exception of the very edges. 

“Looks like we need to change that,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, pacing over towards her. “Come on, we can’t have you bleeding all over the damn floor.”

When she raised her gaze and watched him approach her, she quickly drew back like prey fleeing from a predator. But upon seeing him stop in his tracks at her response, she paused. Waited. Neither of them moved.

Did he think that she was going to try to make a run for it? At the very thought of the idea, her heartbeat quickened and the dreadfully familiar sensation made her feel like the restraints were still locked around her wrists. But he didn’t advance towards her, he didn’t threaten her, or raise the bone shears anywhere near her direction. He did, however, motion with his head for her to follow him, pointing at the back right corner of the room. 

“It’s the only bed on your right. You can’t miss it,” he laughed. “Got clean sheets and everything—” He lowered his voice so that it was barely a mumble. “— _I mean, at least last time I checked,_ ” He raised his tone back to the normal level. “Anyway, meet me over there when you’re ready.”

She tried to pick apart what he meant by ‘when she was ready,’ and upon hearing him chuckle as he walked away, along with the small grin, she realized it was a joke. There was always a joke with him. 

As she slowly rose up on her legs, she had to rock back and forth on her ankles to shake the feeling back in them. When she looked down at her hands, she realized that he was right, blood leaking from the fabric, a drop of it landing on her bare foot. She raised her arms to her chest, hands weakly clasped together as she walked towards the right side of the room where Trager was waiting. As she passed by the rolling tray of tools, a small gleam caught her eye, and after making sure that his back was still turned, she looked down at the object. It was a scalpel, the kind you use for surgery.

She couldn’t linger for too long, not without him noticing, and considering that he was still within earshot, she shouldn’t have taken it, but she did. It was so quick, and so swift that she even amazed herself, and tucked it into the back of her jeans. Acidic regret bubbled in the bottom of her stomach at the realization of how small the blade was, and if she was given an opportunity to defend herself, the smartest idea would be to kill him on sight. It would have been so much easier if she had a different weapon, something less personal, like a gun, something that would be quick and easy. Because as sick as it was, she didn’t _want_ to kill him. Not in a brutal way. If he hadn’t turned around, she would have put the blade back. 

Despite its size, the scalpel could kill him, if she tried really, really hard—she could slit his throat if she managed to get a clean cut, or stab him multiple times in the chest if the adrenaline spiked her energy level. Just from staring at his torso, and how the bones in his ribcage stuck out, she couldn’t imagine successfully driving the blade through him, not with what little meat he had on him. So, she walked over to the said corner, where he seemed to be nervously turning over one of the rolls of gauze in his hand.

The bed did look fairly clean, she could give him that. The light blue sheets were wrinkled, but free of blood, shit, piss, or any other liquid that came to mind. There was a small bedside table with another roll of gauze on it, and on the other side of the mattress, a large window with sturdy metal bars creating a barrier between them and the outside world. A world where situations like the one she was in didn’t usually happen.

Without acknowledging Trager, she kept her head craned over her shoulder to gaze out the window, slowly taking a seat on the bed. There was a clear view of the mountains, and now that she could really take it all in, she saw that the sun was starting to rise. The morning sky was a faint mix of dark grey and light blue, a yellow sphere beginning to peek out from the vast mountaintop.

There were goosebumps on her arms and dead bodies strapped to beds just in the other room, but she felt warm. She felt safe, and continued to avoid the action of looking the other way, wanting nothing more than just a few seconds of peace, to look through the bars and forget. 

“Looks like we pulled an all-nighter, you and I,” His voice cutting through the screen behind her eyes, she turned back around to face him as he spoke. “Well, I did. You were sleeping on the job, but, hey… you should take at least a couple weeks off before going back into work after a surgery, right?”

She opened her mouth, daring to disagree with his clouded logic once more, but ended up pressing her lips back together before she could even think where to begin. 

“Before we take care of your little bleeding problem, let’s check on that head of yours,” He sat down on the bed, placing the roll of gauze next to him to free both of his hands, inching close enough to her so that she was within an arm's length. If he wanted to, he could easily reach out and choke her. She tried telling herself that it wouldn’t come to that, but as she rocked her bare feet against the floor in quiet anxiety, the scalpel poked at her lower back, being reminded that if she had a will to fight back, so would he. 

She was injured. Vulnerable. Sure, he was thin, but he certainly wasn’t weak. The past occurrences told her that if she were to strike him, the odds of her winning was a solid fifty percent chance—but now that she had two pulsing holes in her hands, that changed things. 

“Alright,” he announced, using his fingers to rake through her bangs and pushing them back to reveal the wound on her head. “Let’s see what we got going on here, kiddo,” There was a small bump on the upper right side of her forehead, and when he went to prod at the area around it, she gasped sharply and pulled away as the pain shot straight to the middle of her head. 

“Careful,” she muttered through grit teeth. When she drew back, the scalpel dug further into her; she disguised her grimace, and hoped that it hadn’t torn the skin. She was wearing a white shirt, and even if the new blood blended in with the rest of the stains, he didn’t seem like the kind of person to miss particular details. 

“My bad,” he replied after a few moments of silence lingered, then moved his hand back up to her forehead, but much more slowly this time. He barely touched her, moving closer and closer to the wound as he felt the puffy skin that led to it.

She wondered if she should have even let him touch her, doubting that he washed his hands prior to this. Then again, earlier it seemed like he was worried about a potential infection from her wounds, that’s why he wasted the bottle of booze in the first place. For a reason she did not know, she stayed silent, didn’t want to ask. 

As she continued to sit still, she looked up at him from underneath hooded eyelids, and when she did, he laughed. 

“Don’t worry, I washed up first,” he commented, glancing down at her with a persistent little smile. 

It made her feel like she was losing her mind: did he really say that out of the blue? Or did she ask him without knowing and he was simply answering her question? 

The scalpel drove itself further into her skin—or maybe she just thought it was. Maybe it was fine. Maybe the pain was psychosomatic. 

“Who was that?” she asked, remembering that she had yet to hear an explanation of what happened. “The, uh… patient.”

Without looking at her, Trager continued to examine the injury on her head. His fingers meticulously worked around the area where he struck her; warming up by checking the surrounding skin for tenderness. It was still puffy, but the bleeding stopped, much to his surprise. The gash was deep, and there was a clear opening of where her flesh tore apart, however, because he had put pressure on the area while she was asleep, it seemed to be healing already.

“ _That_ patient was originally _my_ patient,” he started. “Then he became my personal little confidant. I told him that if he pretended like he was going to help you escape, I would let him go.”

It was just as she suspected—he set her up. She assumed so, based off of the short interaction she witnessed between the two men, but this confirmed it. Lucky for her, he was so focused on analyzing the wound on her head that he didn’t notice as she swallowed, the lump in her throat creating a blockage of everything she wanted to say. 

“What would have happened to him if he said no?” she choked out.

“Well,” Trager paused, abandoning the swollen trauma he created, and rested his hand on the top of her head. “I hadn’t really gotten that part yet. Guess I would have had to kill him,” Parting with a satisfied ‘hmph,’ he ruffled her hair in a playful manner, then turned to grab the gauze. “Alright, now, let’s get you all fixed up.”

His response disturbed her, but not to the point where her curiosity was quenched; maybe he should have sewn her mouth shut like he had done to the others, because more questions were going to be fired left and right. 

“What would have happened if I had left with him?”

“You wouldn’t,” he retorted without missing a beat. Then he smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t. You like me too much.”

A tingle swept up from the back of her neck, smearing itself across her face like paint. Her skin felt like it was on fire, sweat manifesting from her pores, leaving her with a glossy complexion amongst the dried up dirt and blood. She scavaged her mind for something to say, and turned to look away, to give herself a break, but he grabbed her chin and turned it towards him, not seeming to notice the tips of his fingers shining from the sweat. 

“Come on, I thought you’d be happy,” He mumbled as he spoke, and it almost sounded like he was whining without the high pitch to accompany it. “I didn’t kill you, I let you live, and now I’m doctoring you up—so, what’s the problem?”

She assumed it was a rhetorical question, because he turned away and grabbed the gauze. He stopped after unrolling it a couple inches, glancing at her, then gesturing towards her hands. 

“I suppose you’re going to want to take those off yourself, huh, champ?”

There was very little moisture in her mouth, but she couldn’t stop gulping. Every time she did, her throat cracked a little more, and her toes curled into tight balls, forgetting that her anxiety was visible if only he looked down. “Actually,” she whispered. “I was hoping you could do it.”

As she heard herself speak, she wanted to grab those words by their last limb and take them back, holding them close to her chest. Every inch of her face, of her neck, of her body felt impossibly hot. Her thoughts muddied and messy, she tried to figure out what else to add, or perhaps, how she could explain herself, but the idea plunked down to her stomach when he started to unwrap the bandage on her hand. 

She let him work as he freed her from the binding, but the state of her mind remained the same, painfully so. 

_Why am I so scared?_ She thought. _He chose to keep me alive, and he seems to trust me—so why am I confused, and why can’t I think, and what is going on with me?_

“Uh oh, what’s going on in that sick little head of yours?” he commented, letting the wet, bloody fabric fall to the floor. “Y’know, you’re really lucky that we ran out of booze, or else I would probably be cleaning your wound again. Lucky for you, we’re halfway done here, buddy.”

 _He doesn’t hate you,_ she reminded herself. _He just wants you to play along. Comply. You can do that, can’t you?_

Maybe, just maybe, if she joked back at him the way that he did at her, she could loosen up. 

“ _Buddy_? I thought you said we advanced in our relationship,” What was intended to be an innocent little quip sounded more like an attempt to flirt with Trager, and she failed to realize this—until he stopped wrapping the fresh gauze around her hand, moving his fingers up to brush her wrist.

She thought she would feel sick. She was ready to fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, but found herself in the same position, unmoving, unbothered, her eyes watching as he brushed a finger across her small veins. In a strange way that she would never admit out loud, it was calming, considering everything she had been through. Even if he was the one who was responsible for it.

It was impossible to know what to believe. Earlier, he had been so cruel; violent, unbearably unhinged and so care-free while doing it, but now he was looking after her, he was almost tender, and she knew that if anyone under this roof tried to harm her, he would help. She wanted to believe that. She was at her wit’s end. It was easier to forgive, to try to make this right, rather than fight it.

The moment she let herself start to lean into the empty space, he lifted his fingers from her wrist, and resumed his handiwork with the gauze. The sudden change in character wasn’t a coincidence—when Trager realized that she was purposefully moving closer, a foreign itch told him to fall back. 

“Don’t tease me,” he laughed, it was weak, but he laughed. “Shit, this thing’s still bleeding, huh?”

In one silent sitting, he finished wrapping the new gauze over her hand, moving onto the next one with little acknowledgement. She didn’t know what to make of the quiet, as in the past hours she grew accustomed to listening to him yack on about his own experiences, what he wanted in the future, what he believed in, and what he didn’t believe, all while slinging one-liner’s left and right. 

There were gaps in her memory that deserved to be filled; she wanted to know how long she was asleep, she wanted to know if almost all of the other patients were dead, but if she didn’t continue to tend to this newfound trust, she would never find out.

“So… I don’t have a concrete plan yet,” she started, her voice sounding much louder than she intended. “But, you’re still planning on escaping with me, right?”

Trager remained silent, suspiciously silent, and finished wrapping up her other hand. Then, glanced up at her with a knowing, passive smile, “I never said that I was going to let you _leave_ , honey. Don’t you remember that little conversation?”

“How could I forget,” she blurted out, then pressed her lips together once again to try to silence herself. She had to bite her tongue to the point where there was a crunching noise in her ears, the recent memory of his mutilation returning to the surface. “Trager, I promised you that we could get out of here together. I know you thought I was lying, but—”

“Alright, alright,” he interrupted. “We’ll entertain your little fantasy.” He clasped his hands together, scooting further back against the bed, and the apron fell towards the center of his lap, exposing the entirety of his legs.

She glanced down, examining the skin on his thighs, despite how many times she had seen it before; but when there was a fleeting thought of wondering what he looked like without it on, she pulled her eyes back up, and tried to forget that it even happened.

“Are you ready to listen now?” he teased. The relentless tingle from earlier shot back up to adorn her ears, neck and face, her blood boiling. “Okay, so—let's say we do break out of here, you and I. What next? Are we gonna be like Bonnie and Clyde, then? Running from the cops?”

“It would be discreet,” she answered, shaking off the sting. “We would be careful. And we wouldn’t have to run from anyone, not for a long time anyway—there’s a… safe place I know.”

He nodded in her direction, the faint light leaving a gleam on the lense of his glasses. “Oh, a safe place, is it? Would it happen to be called prison?”

She scoffed, more offended at that he believed it was even an option than at his accusation. After she turned her body to face him, a glimmering idea encouraged her to touch him the way that he touched her earlier; softly, on the wrist, or hand, but stop there. Anything she did or said that was too forward could evoke an alien reaction.

Instead, she waited. Leaned in far enough to not arouse suspicion, to show him that she meant what she said—he wasn’t a good person. He _did_ belong in prison, or in another mental institution at the very least, but she didn’t want him there. 

“I am not throwing you in prison,” she shot. “And there’s nothing I can do to prove to you that I won’t—but I won’t.”

He was quiet again, but she could tell she had his attention. It was apparent in how he let her speak, how he silenced his own remarks to take a moment, just a moment, to listen to her. Through their short time together, he was finding that it was easier to shut off his brain when he was around her; he wanted to hear what she had to say, and he didn’t feel that way about a whole lot of people. 

“I don’t think it would be smart to have you stay with me,” She tore off the bandaid as quick as she could. “It’ll probably be the first place they look—we’ll figure something out,” As she tried to clench her fist, she gasped at the pain, then collected herself, slowly uncurling her fingers. “But the longer we stay here, the more time we give them to find us.”

“Easy there, buddy,” he chuckled, reaching over to pat the top of her hand, and when he did, it was delicate. “I was just yanking your chain. I suppose this little adventure is a work in progress.”

The word chain infiltrated her train of thought; _chain, silver… silver, tool… silver… scalpel…_

The tip of the blade was still digging into her lower back. It hadn’t punctured the skin yet, not that she knew of, but she suddenly felt like the walls were going to close in, in such a big room, and Trager may have been wearing a faint smile, but all it would take for it to turn sour would be for him to find what she was hiding. 

He just started to trust her. She couldn’t fuck this up. Not yet.

“I’m just going to say it, because it needs to be said,” she began, nervous breaths clogging her lungs the longer they looked at each other. “But I’m… really surprised you didn’t kill me.”

In spite of the tight scarring that covered his body, Trager’s skin felt like it being cut into, and pulled back together into a knot—not only did he not know what to say, but he was already worrying about how to respond. His pulse beating in his throat, he swallowed and said, “Well, shit, buddy, I gotta make sure you stick around. You’re smart, which means you’re useful. Plus, you’re my ticket out of here.”

As Trager spoke, his hand repeatedly rose to touch his face, scratching his cheek even though there wasn’t an itch, rubbing his neck even though it wasn’t sore. “I guess you’re going to ask me to put on an actual pair of pants before we leave, huh?”

A huff of air left her nose, a small smile creeping onto her face. “Hey, when I say you’re a free man, you’re a _free_ _man_.”

Trager tilted his head back in laughter, his chin pointed high enough to almost completely show the scarring of his mouth; it happened too fast for her to get a good look at it. As his head fell back down, she let the atmosphere fade into the white noise. The next thing she knew, she wasn’t scrunching her nose from the pungent scent that circled the room like vultures, and for a moment she forgot that her instinct was to survive, and somehow it felt diminished; she was torn apart and left open for any opportunity. 

“Could I take this off?” she asked softly, pointing at the mask over his face. “So I can see just how much damage that fucker Jeremy Blaire did?” She smiled in a gesture to lighten the tone, make things more comfortable if she happened to rub him the wrong way, and could only hope that whatever tension she created, it would compress. 

At first, Trager sucked the air in through his teeth, looking away from her and turning his attention to the light flicker that projected itself on the floor in front of them. Then gave in not but a few seconds later, smiling back, “Alright, but hey—don’t get your hopes up. I’m not as pretty as I used to be.”

He wasn’t scared, but felt sharp jolts of nervousness as he reached up to take the mask off; he didn’t get far, because she placed her hands on top of his, and slowly set them back in his lap. 

“I asked if _I_ could take it off,” she reminded him, and was surprised at the confidence radiating in her voice. It was gentle, yet firm. Trager didn’t know why she wanted to do it, but didn’t question her intentions to give off the impression that he didn’t care what she thought. But he did, and that was what scared him. 

He nodded in her direction in approval, and she reached behind his ears, pulling the string off. She let the mask fall into his lap, and she didn’t pull away in disgust, she didn’t cover her mouth with her hand, and she didn’t narrow her eyes or scowl. Instead, her expression softened, eyebrows curved sympathetically as she offered a deep sigh. A solid ache hit her throat as she scanned over the exposed flesh. The missing skin was almost in the shape of the narrow diamond, leaving less than half of his lips left, gums red and raw, and his teeth bare. But she didn’t feel any different about him—the only thing that changed was that she trusted him, just a little more than before. 

“It’s not even that bad,” she said quietly, tilting her head as her eyes left his mouth and met his own. When her hand moved up to touch him, she felt like she couldn’t control it, and the vehement confusion and constant doubt meant as much to her as the blood that was starting to dry on the sole of her foot. “Would it bother you if I touched it?” she asked, hand lingering an inch of so from his face. 

“You want to?” he responded, drawing back an inch or so himself. “Well… sure. I guess. As long as you don’t get any kind of sick pleasure out of it,” He supplied a laugh that didn’t sound as convincing as he imagined it would be, and she only smiled at him, a sudden tug at her stomach because he was nervous and she knew that she did that all on her own. 

Still smiling, although it was subtle, she brushed her thumb across the right side of his face, and felt the surprisingly soft gums that bled into the torn skin above his lip. Trager couldn’t help but notice that she leaned into his space once again, her eyes following her finger as she caressed the scarring. He suddenly felt more aware of his body, what it was doing, how it was reacting; how, because of the close proximity, she could hear the falter in his breathing, and since her clothed leg rested against his bare one, she would be able to tell how tense he was.

When he supplied her with a long, distraught sigh, his muscles unlocked, shoulders falling down, leaving his head to tilt further to hers, almost touching her forehead with his chin. 

She wasn’t sure what to say. The silence felt comfortable to her, and she didn’t want to disturb whatever it was that was happening between them, even if an advancement of this relationship in the future wasn’t the rational decision. The right decision. 

“I bet you hate this,” she said, moving her finger closer to his teeth, but still lingering over his gums. “It might not bother me, but… I know it bothers you. It’s why you wear the mask, right?”

“Partially,” he responded in a quiet voice. “But, hey, if it doesn’t bother you—maybe my playboy days aren’t over.”

Her laughter almost echoed throughout the room as it reached the same level as his. When her hand fell from his face, Trager felt his heart drop with it. 

“I meant what I said,” There was a prominent need to be near him, to initiate some form of physical contact, but everything she wanted to do felt too forceful. It would be a rushed, poorly paced gesture. “They tortured you—of course you’re going to have scars from it. A lot of people do,” As she spoke, her gaze levelled with her leg, meticulously moving her hands up and down both pant legs. “I have a scar from someone torturing me, too. And, no, I’m not talking about the gaping holes you put in my hands.”

Trager laughed before he could think of if she was joking or not, but based on the way she was still trying to hide a smile and how those brown eyes had a glimmer to them, he knew.

She should have been angry at Trager, outraged, but she couldn't bear to drag herself to the gate of clear lucidity. It shouldn’t have been hard to hate him; if anything, it should have come naturally, and not caused a mental meltdown at every fluctuating thought. 

“Can I just… see something?” she asked, hands already placed on both sides of his face. She ran her thumb across his temple, where it looked like a stitch had recently been pulled out, pressing lightly in case it hurt. Without speaking, he nodded in her direction to continue, and she moved her hand to brush his exposed gums again; her touch so light that it made him feel sensitive, and he swallowed hard as to not put his excitement on display. 

As her finger moved up the missing skin above his lip, she leaned, breaking the barrier of how close they had previously gotten to each other. He was impressed that she was the one who made the first move—and such a bold one, an obvious one—but when her lips parted and she pressed them against his cheek, lingering for longer than he anticipated, the breath knocked out from his chest. He felt flooded with warmth, eyes briefly shutting as he relaxed into her space. 

When she pulled away, she didn’t pull away far, and before either of them could articulate what exactly was happening, she kissed him again, only lower than before, moving near his mouth. With each gentle kiss, she shifted closer and closer to his lips, or lack therefore, but when she got too close, he placed his hand on her thigh, giving it a tight squeeze, and pulled his head away.

The sudden feeling of his hand as it rested on such an intimate part of her body almost made her gasp, but she swallowed the bliss and kept a steady gaze. Seeing his stature next to her made her feel small; not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but in a way that gave her butterflies when she saw how long his fingers were, especially when they were wrapped around her thigh. 

“Listen, honey, I like where your head’s at. I do,” he paused, then scoffed while managing to throw a few laughs in. “But, as much as I’d like to use these lips of mine… they’re gone.”

“I don’t know,” she started, already leaning in again. “I think I see some left—even if it isn’t much.”

She wasn’t thinking of the pain anymore. She wasn’t thinking about if she was going to lose her job or not when she got home. She wasn’t thinking about how their plan to escape wasn’t possible, and would put her life in jeopardy; that there was no way to hide him, no _place_ to hide him, without safely moving together. Without being on the run. 

She couldn’t bring herself to think like that; so, she shut her eyes, not letting a second pass before she pressed her lips onto the other side of his face, where the unscarred skin waited for her. Without having to think, Trager kissed her back with the same, if not more, intensity; and the ache in his fingers beckoned him to move up her thigh, curving his hand to touch her back once it advanced to her waist. As their mouths moved together slowly, she ran her hands up his chest, stopping at the sides of his messily stitched face, and brushed her fingers across it.

Then, right when she let herself finally moan into his mouth, unable to resist the desire to flaunt what he did to her, the realization hit her—but before she could think of an excuse to pull away from him, or somehow distract him in a desperate attempt to hide the scalpel, a scream echoed down the hall. 

Her heart beating ravenously in her throat as if it was out to kill her; she watched Trager’s reaction from the corner of her eye, occasionally shifting her gaze back to the direction where the scream came. When he let his hands drop down to the mattress and slowly drag back to his own body, she pressed her teeth together tightly so as to not verbally comfort herself like a child. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Trager muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “ _You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…_ ” He turned his direction towards her, and reached up to tuck a messy bunch of her hair behind her ear. “Right when we were starting to have fun, right?”

She smiled with him. She nodded, gave a delicate hum to agree with, but inside, she was immersed with her thoughts.

 _Oh my God_ — _I was going to kill him. I was going to kill him and I forgot. How do you forget something like that? Is it this place? Is this environment just desensitizing me to the point where I’m willingly throwing myself at the person who almost killed me? And tortured me?_

Somehow, the thoughts got worse.

_And how do I get out of this mess, and why do I not want the answer to involve hurting him?_

“Now, I have to go deal with this,” he said abruptly. “But you don’t go anywhere, okay?” He lowered his voice, gripping her thigh as he did earlier, and leaned down far enough to whisper into her ear. “I promise that the second I get back, I’ll give you the attention that you want.”

As much as she wanted to backtrack and shift her internal process, it felt like there was no other outcome—like the attraction wasn’t an option—and held her breath when he used the right side of his mouth to kiss her earlobe. 

“Hey? You hear me, buddy? _Promise_ ,” he mumbled, moving his mouth to the top of her head. “You know… I feel like now is a good time for you to finally tell me your name.”

It was going to be okay; she could do something, anything. The more defenses she let down, the more he trusted her, and, it felt natural to be vulnerable with him. 

Although her limbs felt oddly light, she shifted her weight, eyes flickering from her lap to his eyes. “Molly,” she answered.

“ _Molly_ ,” he repeated, and despite how unattractive he knew he looked with his bare mouth, he couldn’t help but smile. With that parting statement, he ran his fingers through her unkempt hair, slipped the mask back over his mouth and stood up. He gave a little wave as she stared at him blankly, wanting to do something, to stop him from leaving, yet still needing to get rid of the scalpel. 

When Trager turned his back to her, almost to the double doors, she stood up. Silently. He was rushing, eager to come back, a factor that would only remain intact if she got rid of any evidence that took it. Her bare feet against the tile allowed her to creep towards the rolling tray easily enough that she questioned if Trager was pretending to not hear her. 

She stopped at the rolling tray, eyes shooting at Trager’s back. His hand reached to open the door, and she pulled the blade out, carefully placing it on the tray in front of her—the faint sound of the tool clattering was overpowered by the sound of the heavy, creaky doors being forcefully opened.

Trager turned around to get another look at her before he left, and almost frowned when he saw that she had gotten up and seemed to be following him. Surprised, but enlightened. Daringly happy.

Upon seeing that he was confused, clueless, a sigh of relief escaped her, and with a cautious smile, she paced towards him, a newfound grace in her step, she asked, “ _Can I come with you?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> rick said my way or the highway.
> 
> i’m also still new to this whole “actually posting the fan-fictions i write“ thing so feedback is highly encouraged!!


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